


Ice;melted

by thetalkingcrocus



Category: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetalkingcrocus/pseuds/thetalkingcrocus
Summary: McMurphy, Harding, and a cabin in Canada away from it all.





	Ice;melted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RogueAlice_91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueAlice_91/gifts).



> Written for RogueAlice_91 as part of the 2013-2014 One Flew Winter Exchange. Originally posted to my tumblr December 31 2013.

The both of you were still getting used to having time to spare. To not having to rut hurriedly against one another in hospital hallways, jerking off in the shower rooms when no one else was up yet. It was a strange notion, that it had turned out alright, and you had gotten up to this pretty cabin in Nelson, British Columbia past the Canadian border, while the divorce papers were still being filed. (Vera had gone to stay with her mother.) Now Bromden had gone on a trip, gone back to visit the gorge, and you and McMurphy had all the time in the world and an entire house to yourself and you were near-overwhelmed with this fact and so you propositioned, not with words, you weren’t that bold even now, but with sly smiles.

            Lucky for you, McMurphy was good at taking hints. You hadn’t got used to it, not really- the way he paid so much attention to you. He dragged his eyes across your frame in a way that didn’t make you feel self conscious, but instead made you feel near radiant, as though the burning in your cheeks was a glow rather than a fervent blush. Vera had never looked at you like this- she’d been all looking away, bored except when she’d hold contact, your eyes the same shade of ice blue but yours had darker lines, cracks in them; ice melting. Springtime. She was winter.

(Sometimes, you looked into McMurphy’s eyes, full of fire, and thought perhaps there was a reason that your icy eyes were half-melted)

            The smoke and musk of his presence was enough to distract you from your musings, as per usual, but the quirking grin he was giving you as he eyed you up (you could feel the sparks) was captivating. He pulled you closer by the hips and you could have sworn your skin was on fire. Your hands froze, in front of you, mid leap.

(They’d done this with Vera too. You’d tucked them away at that point, or set them gingerly on her waist.)

            He pulled you into a red hot kiss and your hands flew, instinctually, to tangle in his thick red hair. You hadn’t been taught this; of course you hadn’t seen it in the movies, and the men you had kissed before coming on the ward had been gruff, not passionate, seeking to satisfy a need and nothing more. This was instinct. This felt like coming home.

            You could feel your pulse in every part of you as his hands skimmed the V of your hipbones, thumbs hooking into your belt loops and finding purchase, pulling you forward until his hips bump against yours. He doesn’t break the kiss. Neither do you, and it seems like an eternity of electricity before you pull back reluctantly, trailing kisses across his ginger-stubbled jaw.

            “What’s that for, Harding?” McMurphy asks and his voice is lower than usual, huskier. You think you can see smoke coiling from his lungs and out his mouth and eyes, because surely there is a fire within him.

            “Bedroom?” you suggest, just that one word, and you’re timid, there’s no doubt about it. The rabbit in you is alive and well, and trembling somewhere above the heat pooling in your belly. He takes a fraction of a second to respond, and the living room of the tiny cabin, sparsely furnished, of course, echoes with the vulnerable loudness of your breathing and his. You look at his eyes, feeling a blush creep across your cheeks, and his pupils are lust-blown and dark against the sparks of irises and the worry in you stills a little. He waggles his eyebrows, maybe to squash your worrying a little bit, and you let out a chuckle as he turns, all broad shoulders and narrow, pivoting hips to lead you towards his bedroom.

            McMurphy’s room has a sloping roof (he insisted on taking the loft, while you and Bromden got the larger but less aesthetic bedrooms on the main floor) and that roof is plastered with pinup girls and you feel an overwhelming fondness wash over you, mixing with arousal into a tonic dangerously close to love. He takes off his heavy biker’s jacket and tosses it casually over a chair that already seems to be holding roughly half of his possessions, including the battered deck of cards he showed you and the boys the first time you met. There’s an almost shy moment as you unbutton your dress shirt with trembling dove hands, and he just watches you

            (She used to watch you undress too, but it was disinterest, contempt, maybe even pity at your lack of performance that haunted her eyes. Nothing like the fire in his.)

            With characteristic casualness, McMurphy grasps the back of his tshirt and tugs it over his head, and he is bare before you and you pause in your unbuttoning. It’s not like you’ve never seen his torso before, but even so, in your current state, you feel your pants grow a bit more restrictive and you squirm, finally unbuttoning the shirt all the way and not bothering to shrug it off, to preoccupied with kissing McMurphy, with getting close to him. He skirts his hands over the alabaster of your back, along each soft notch of spine, and you moan into his mouth, arching against him and you feel him tense up at the noise. You falter, self conscious, and he breaks the kiss to look directly at you and grasp your chin in his massive hand.

            “You make the most goddamn beautiful noises when you’re not talking jargon,” he drawls and you can nearly feel yourself melt. It is a good thing his is holding you up by this point, because you don’t trust your legs anymore. In a smooth, magician-like motion he gently pushes the shirt from your shoulders and, a bit more firmly, presses you down onto the bed and  _oh_.

            This is how it is supposed to feel, you can’t help but think, as he nibbles bruises across the white of your skin, and you do the same at his pulse points- sometimes, you think about what might have happened had he not escaped when he had, but now, as he shifts his hand towards the zip of your pants and gives a head tilt, looking for your consent, is not the time to think of this. Overwhelmed buy the sheer reality of what’s happening, you give a faint nod, and he kisses just below your ear.

            “We don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to,” he whispers, “I can take care of myself  _plenty_ well enough.”

            “I’m sure you can,” you mutter, surprised by your own boldness, and you take his hand and guide it to your belt buckle. His deft fingers undo the clasp and slip beneath, between your trousers and boxers and you shiver, making a noise embarrassingly close to a mewl, but a noise that just seems to egg your partner on.

            He guides the rough fabric of your pants down over your hips and you help him by kicking them off as much as you can, freeing yourself of a layer. You feel incredibly exposed, and so he covers you with himself.

            “We’re not exactly fairly matched,” you point out, trying your best to hide the quiver in your voice as you gesture to his completely clothes lower half. He shushes you not unkindly and moves to kiss along your hipbones, palming your erection through your underwear, lavishing you with affection and touch and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so adored.

            “Just let me take this in,” he says with a devilish grin, “Jesus, Harding, anyone’d be lucky to have you. Look at you,” he says and his voice drops, lower, quieter, reverent. He tugs at the waistband of your boxers, and you hold your breath as he expels his, eyes hungry. He kisses the head of your cock in what seems to be a bizarrely affectionate gesture, and then leans in further before you tug him up closer to you by a muscular bicep. He whines a little and you smile, kissing him hard. Your hands go to his fly now, and you’re wrestling him out of his pants with a ferocious sort of determination and he’s grinning.

            (He fights off your insecurities. All your self loathing is afraid of a little fire, and a blaze like McMurphy sends them scattering into the shadows)

            “Eager, are we?” he pants.

            “You tell me,” you reply, with one arched eyebrow, palming the bulge in his ridiculous boxer shorts. He bites his lip, and you know you’ve won this round, anyways.

            The next few moments are a haze of frenzied kissing and each of you trying to pull the other out of his shorts, whilst being interrupted by the shocks of pleasure going to your own brain, until finally, you break away from McMurphy’s mouth, reluctantly, and head further down his body instead, nibbling at the smooth muscle of his stomach, at the protruding edges of his hipbones. He writhes, oversensitive.

            (He is on fire. You are melted.)

            “May I?” you ask, suddenly shy, despite having done this before for him. You know he likes it, and especially so when you can drag it out, as you can now in this empty house.

            “Please,” he groans, politeness and ulterior motive, that is your Mack. You think the possessive without intention, and wrap your lips around his member anyways, lapping at the underside with your tongue, listening gleefully to the noises you draw out of him. He curses and shudders as time wears on, and when he comes down your throat you meet his eyes. He doesn’t look away, stares into you, not through you.

            (She looked through you, or not at all.)

            He pants heavily and you kiss him, kiss him hard so he can taste himself on your tongue, and he sighs.

            “You’re goddamn beautiful, Harding,” he says, a dopey smile lighting up his face. His pupils are still dilated with arousal, and in looking at your eyes he knows the same is true for you.

            “Please, let me,” he says, and your heart flutters because yes, this is the only time McMurphy is this eager to please. He’ll be back to his stubborn self when you wake up next to him and you’ll care about him, just the same.

            He reaches down and grips you in his hand, all callouses and warmth and you remember the first time you felt it like this you’d already been fantasizing for weeks and weeks. (You were doomed from the start.) He kisses along your neck and you shudder and wriggle, skin prickling with need. He coaxes your orgasm from you with words, a skill you envy (A skill, he argues, you  _definitely_  would have if you weren’t so shy about this sort of thing- and he kisses you, to show he doesn’t mind).

            Afterwards you go to get a cloth to clean up a little (McMurphy, typical, does not care in the least about that sort of thing. You wipe yourself down gently and then wipe off his hand, taking care over the anchor tattooed on the back of it. You follow an impulse and kiss the ink as McMurphy lights a cigarette and you nestle in next to him. Your thighs touch under the blanket. You pluck the cigarette from your lover’s hand and he kisses you, softly, more softly than you would think he was capable of.

            You’ve never been able to experience an afterglow.

            You take a drag of his cigarette and he meets your gaze and smiles, not a sharp grin, just a soft, lazy, warm expression that matches the feeling floating around in your bodies. You smile back. Your eyes are clear, water-blue in the cabin’s dim light.

            (He doesn’t look away.)


End file.
